


Rabbit Hole

by lferion



Category: Highlander: The Series
Genre: Ficlet, Flash Fic, Flash-Slash, Flashback, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-01-27
Updated: 2009-01-27
Packaged: 2017-10-12 09:59:54
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 327
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/123671
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lferion/pseuds/lferion
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Tantalus flashback: dash echo poison/ous submission/submit</p>
            </blockquote>





	Rabbit Hole

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Tantalus](https://archiveofourown.org/works/63199) by [lferion](https://archiveofourown.org/users/lferion/pseuds/lferion). 



> Written on/for Down the Rabbit-Hole Day (Lewis Carroll's birthday). (http://www.boingboing.net/2009/01/13/rabbit-hole-day-janu.html)
> 
> Words from Set 90 of Flash Slash (http://community.livejournal.com/flashslash/)

He remembered running, the poison in his veins only an echo of the poisonous presence of the man who called himself Beli and less insidious than his words. He remembered dashing his whole body (bone and breath and will - hardly enough flesh to count) against the one board in the wall of the shed that had given just the tiniest bit under his cheek as he pressed vainly against it, trying to avoid the unavoidable lash, the prick and probe and horrible slide of the metal under his skin. Remembered the jolt of the needle hitting bone, breaking, and the acid spill of whatever that shit was they gave him burning down the furrows in his back. Something in him had revolted, refused to submit for even one more moment. Remembered the sickening crash of the weighted handle against the side of his head and a long, dim agony of fire and darkness punctuated with intolerable light and the iron clangor of bells.

When he found himself once more in the damp, musty chill of the shed he'd been astonished, and when the board flexed under the pressure of his shoulder he had moved into some state well past amazement and into determination. He remembered the crack of the board, the seam of light that glimmered and winked as he flinched away from the noise and the expectation of discovery. But the light drew him, proving to be the beginnings of a bonfire. (Bonefire, pyre, altar of sacrifice, and oh, he remembered the smoke and the smell and the screams. Remembered burning, remembered breathing flame and dying in fire.) Wood splintered under his hands as he threw himself against the thread of light and the board broke, tumbling him into the brittle mess of dead weeds that filled the space between the shed and the low wall that divided yard from court, profane from sacred.

With a shuddering start, Methos woke. Only dream. Memory. Past, not present.


End file.
